A Spoonful of Sugar
by chrissie0707
Summary: S4, post-Monster Movie. As with any affliction that befalls only one sibling, like a hangnail or a cold sore, it's amusing...at first. Conclusion: Sam removes a hand from its white-knuckled grip on the fake officer's getup and throws a shaky finger to where Dean is slumped on his left. "Fix him. Now."
1. Part I

_Author Notes: Hey there. Me again. With another fic that only exists because of a prompt from the uber-talented (and kind of mean) Nova42. I actually lost a bet because I didn't have this story finished earlier. I don't want to spoil any of what is to come in this four-part story, so I will hang onto the list of prompts (there were TEN) until the end._

 _This story takes place early S4, after "Monster Movie." Warning for some strong language._

* * *

 _A Spoonful of Sugar_

 _Part I_

Sam had a bicycle once when he was a kid, but only because Dean stole it from a nicer neighborhood farther from the center of town and only for a few days, until Dad got back and made him return it. At the time, Sam had been okay with the nefarious manner in which it had come to be his, back when he was young enough to believe his big brother when he said that if you were stupid enough to leave something nice within easy reach of a stranger then you deserved to have it stolen. It didn't take long for Sam to realize that, in actuality, the bike _hadn't_ been within easy reach, that Dean had probably picked a lock or thrown a rock through a window in the garage to lift it, and that type of intrusion isn't anything the family "had coming" to them.

It was the first time Sam thought, _Dean doesn't think about consequences_. Not for himself, because surely if he'd taken just a moment to think, _what is DAD gonna say,_ he'd have been able to foresee the stinging backside that would leave him precariously perched on the edge of every seat for nearly a week. And not for anyone else involved, either, stealing from another child and damaging property along the way. Maybe Sam didn't quite have the vocabulary or capacity to form such layered thoughts at the time, but he got the idea of right and wrong and being punished for wrong, even at six. So, it was more the thought, _Dean doesn't think about punishment._

Not Dean. Never Dean.

For Dean it's always been about making Sam happy, with very little thought of what comes after. Always been some form of, _make Sammy happy, and everything else will work itself out._

And, as they've grown older, into men in their own right and chasing after the things in the dark, _keep Sammy alive, and everything else will work itself out._

He's been stupid lucky, and that hasn't done much in the way of changing this frame of mind. Close call after close call, but somehow Dean always steps in a pile of shit and ends up smelling like roses.

Until Dad died.

But then, even _that_ only became justification for Dean's future actions, cemented the utterly backwards notion that human lives are bartering chips of varying levels of value. The idea that the things in the dark have placed a much higher value on his own life than he ever has.

This deal, the one for his soul? It was one close call too many, and Dean really should have thought about the consequences. For himself, and for everyone else involved.

How Dean doesn't consider himself responsible for everything that's transpired since is well beyond Sam's capacity for understanding.

John Winchester had perfect 20/20 vision.

His sons have hindsight.

* * *

As with any affliction that befalls only one sibling, like a hangnail or a cold sore, it's amusing at first. They're brothers, damn it, and if you can't laugh at your big brother when he's puking a bite of Belgian waffle all down the front of himself immediately after swallowing it, what good is it to even have him back from the dead?

"Told you, should've stopped before that last round," Sam chides, passing a stack of folded napkins across the table with a grimace.

It's Oktoberfest in every pub and bar across the states, and Dean, admittedly, is unmatched in his ability to hold his liquor. But somewhere in the previous night's pattern of shot-beer-beer-big pretzel-shot-shot-beer-repeat, physics and biology were bound to take over, and no one looks cool with his head in a toilet.

"Shut you face, Sam," Dean growls, but it's not all that threatening when his ears are such a shade of red they're practically glowing. He wipes the mess from his shirtfront, takes a sip from his water glass to clean his mouth. That, too, is immediately dribbling down his chin and into his lap. "Son of a _bitch_."

Sam laughs in a manner too big and too loud for their tight surroundings, and he's no longer the only one. A scrawny busboy with a face full of zits and a mouthful of pink bubble gum chuckles along as he clears empty dishes from the booth behind Dean. With so little else to laugh at lately, Sam's encouraged by the company. He lets loose another good-natured guffaw before he digests the expression on his brother's face, the way Dean's already moved on from merely annoyed and embarrassed to genuinely alarmed.

"Okay," Sam says, pushing his plate aside with the scrape of cheap china on a cheaper table. "You're not hungover. Probably. What's up with you?"

Dean's eyes widen and shift all over, evidence of a mind working on overdrive. Because he's Dean, and he sure as shit needs to be able to answer that question for himself before he throws an answer Sam's way. "I dunno," he settles on, expression giving away exactly how lame he knows his words are even as he's saying them.

"You sick? And you'd better be straight with me, man, because we keep pretty close quarters, and I don't wanna be catching anything that's gonna have me puking up my breakfast when I'm still at the table."

Dean swallows, gags a little at the action. He sniffs and absently rubs his stomach, which, in the jackass's mind, is comparable to visiting a doctor. "I don't think so."

"Okay." Sam crosses his arms on the tabletop and raises his eyebrows. He doesn't give a shit about Dean's nearly inhuman tolerance for alcohol, and he'sgetting REAL close to changing his best guess back to _hangover_ , "What, then?" _Third time's a charm_ , he thinks, and jerks his chin at the water glass sweating next to Dean's hand.

Dean glares daggers of apprehension at the glass, curls his lip as he pulls it toward himself and brings it up for a tentative sip.

Sam narrows his eyes and gives it a good five-count, then feels the tension in his shoulders bleed away. "Good?" Relatively speaking, of course, because _good_ means _hangover_ , which translates into _moody jackass._

Dean nods slowly, then gags in a manner that has Sam's own throat tightening in sympathy, and proceeds to cough the mouthful of ice water into a cupped hand.

"Dude." Sam leans back, searching the tabletop for more napkins.

Dean stares at the water dripping from between his fingers for a moment before wiping his wet palm along the leg of his jeans.

"Dude," Sam reiterates with a wrinkled nose. "You're sick."

"Uh uh."

"Yep."

"No, I'm not," Dean whisper-yells, like none of their fellow diner patrons noticed him throwing up on himself but a little lively conversation, THAT'S sure to disrupt their meals. The busboy chortles again as he moves his tub loaded with dishes behind the counter.

"Even setting aside the fact that you're hurling everything you're putting in your mouth, you see how you're going back and forth with me like a five-year-old?" Sam raises his eyebrows. "That's classic sick Winchester." _Dad-patented, Dean-perfected._

"Whatever," Dean grumbles. He gazes down at the heap of perfectly-browned waffles cooling on his plate, syrup oozing into crevices and pooling onto the pile of crisp bacon nestled next to the stack. "I'm not sick," he argues again, but seems to be talking to more to himself, or maybe his breakfast, than he is to Sam.

The waffles win the staring contest as Dean gives up with a grimace and pushes the plate aside.

On their way out of the restaurant Dean almost runs smack into the back of a street performer strumming a half-hearted version of "Brown Sugar." Decked out in mirrored aviators and a concerning number of infinity scarves, he's parked himself and his open, stickered guitar case right by the diner entrance.

Sam sidesteps the case with ease but, already irritated to the point of distraction, Dean trips on the corner and almost adds injury to the morning's insult by taking out his groin on a paper box.

* * *

They're in the perpetual flats of Ohio, just passing through, but Sam convinces Dean to stop for the remainder of the day. His brother is more cantankerous than usual – which is really saying something – and still appears vaguely nauseated. Be it the result of illness or hangover, a few hours of rest will do a world of good. He's not quite at his best, still relatively freshly undead, and despite bragging recently about unmarred skin and straight fingers, he's far from the robust and sturdy Dean Winchester that Sam was forced to bury and grieve six months ago.

They get a room at the Hilltop View Hotel, a slouching, bricked row of a dozen rooms the size of storage lockers nestled atop a mound of dirt that only constitutes a "hill" when the surrounding landscape is so damn flat you can see clearly for miles. So damn flat Sam thinks he might actually be gazing at the Indianapolis skyline in the distance. The advertised view they're afforded is that of the crowded, loud, oil-stained parking lot of the truck stop next door.

Dean bumps Sam with an elbow on his way into the room. "Dude. Check out the lot lizards."

"What…" Sam turns, sees a pair of hard-rode women chatting up a mustachioed driver leaning on his rig. The intent of the group is as clear as the lettering of the towering interstate billboard advertising Slushees across the interchange. He turns back to Dean, who is wide-eyed and waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"They're not lookin' so bad, man," he says around the wide grin cutting across his face. "I mean, if you're feelin' lonely, I'm sure they'll do in a pinch." _Can't be worse than a demon,_ Dean doesn't say, because he doesn't have to.

Sam frowns and shoves Dean over the threshold. "Shut up." He _is_ feeling lonely, though, even having his brother back in the passenger seat. Or, more accurately, driver's seat. But it's not the companionship he's craving, and he can't stop his thoughts from drifting to Ruby and how long it's been since they've been together. Long enough that he can feel his body weakening without her. Probably wouldn't even be able to appropriately sneer at a demon right now.

Dean can see the hunger in his face, wrinkles his nose in patented disgust. "Whatever you're thinking about, Sam? Stop. Now, before I throw up again." He drops the green cooler to the foot of the first bed and chucks his bag to bounce atop the flowered, plastic-y duvet. He shrugs out of his navy cargo jacket and tosses it on top of the duffel without breaking stride across the room to disappear into the bathroom. Splashing water on his face, cooling off, trying to feel better. Dean's way to take a moment to pause and reset, a moment where he doesn't have to talk or, maybe more importantly, be talked to.

Sam shuts the door and moves to the second bed, drops his own bag there. He sighs and runs his hands through his hair, smoothing it unnecessarily. They're able to put up a good front for a short amount of time, but something is broken here, and it will require more than dental floss and improvisation to stitch this rift of mostly his own making.

Dean emerges, rolls his eyes, then pulls up the hem of his charcoal cotton t-shirt to pat his face dry. "You know, if you don't stop giving me the stink eye, your face is gonna freeze that way." He stoops to flip open the cooler lid and narrows his eyes up at Sam as he roots under the ice for a beer. "Or maybe it already has."

Sam doesn't give Dean the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him, mostly because he knows the reason he's being such a colossal ass is that he's not feeling particularly well. A Dean without breakfast is one of the less appealing variations. He watches his brother twist the cap off of a bottle while kicking the cooler closed with his boot heel. "Dean," Sam warns in what is, admittedly, a somewhat motherly tone.

"What?" Dean flicks the bottle cap across the room, sinking it directly into the center of the trash can next to the door. "This right here is the best medicine there is."

Sam settles his hands pissily against his hips before he catches himself and drops them to slap limply against his thighs. "No, that's laughter."

Dean kind of grins to himself, like Sam took an unfortunate misstep right into his argumentative mousetrap, and shrugs as he straightens, bringing the frosty bottle to his lips. "Close enough."

And then he does a genuine, internet-worthy spit-take.

A frothy spray of beer erupts from his mouth as though from a firehose, foam fountaining over the contours of the bottle and his hand as Dean jerks where he stands, the cold brew dripping to the carpet and the toes of his boots in fat drops. He blinks dumbly for a moment, not looking in the least bit amused or unsurprised by what has just transpired.

Sam doesn't laugh this time, because he knows when it's time to follow the lead of the pit in his gut. He swallows and points at the bedspread at Dean's back. "Sit down a minute."

When Dean doesn't immediate acquiesce to his demands Sam reaches out and grabs his brother around the wrist. Dean stumbles and spills even more beer as Sam yanks him forward and forces him to sit on the edge of the bed.

While he's still gaping a protestation Sam clamps his hand over Dean's admittedly cool forehead, and frowns. "I don't get it, man. You feel fine."

"I feel hungry," Dean argues, shaking away from Sam's hand.

"You're always hungry."

"What's your point?" Dean glares at the bottle of beer in hand, much like he would an animal that had just stung or bit him, and holds it away from himself.

Sam sighs and takes the drink from him, setting it aside on the nearest flat surface. "That there might be something more important happening here than the fact you're hungry."

"I didn't get breakfast, Sam," Dean says, shaking drops of beer from his hand. "I'm not hungry. I'm STARVING."

"You're not gonna die because you skipped breakfast," Sam says with forced patience and just the faintest trace of alarm. "You'll be fine for a few hours while I figure this out."

Dean frowns up at him. "While you figure what out? Dude, I'm fine."

"Dean." Sam shakes his head. "You haven't been to get anything down all morning, and you're not sick. Something's going on with you."

Dean makes a face, once again moves to rub his stomach. "Like what?"

He looks much too like a petulant child when he gets this way. It takes some work for concern to outweigh annoyance, but Sam gets there. Or at least strikes some sort of healthy balance. He shrugs, pacing the room. "Curse, charm, spell…I don't know. What makes sense?"

Dean gazes longingly at the heady beer going to waste on the tabletop. He swallows, coughs a little into his fist. "Why in the hell would I be cursed?"

Sam fights the eye roll as he squares himself in front of his brother. "Why _wouldn't_ you be?"

* * *

Without the current possibility of food and drink to occupy his time and constant need to DO SOMETHING, Dean, his pent-up energy and his twitchy hands scour the motel room for some other acceptable form of busywork, while Sam attempts to sit quietly with the laptop and figure this out. He would suggest to his brother to do some of the laundry, because he's pretty sure he can smell the ripening clothing in their bags across the room, but he's trying to make Dean feel _better_ here _._

After about twenty minutes of pacing, Dean finally settles down to clean the guns – every damn one, too – and fills the small room with the slightly nauseating, extremely nostalgia-inducing tang of oil. Throw in the stinging scent of disappointment and stale cigarettes and John Winchester might as well be in the room with them.

Sam's just about to get up and open the window when Dean throws the rod and stained cloth aside, leaving a smudge on the duvet. "This is bullshit, Sam."

Elbow propped on the table, chin planted in his hand, Sam shifts his eyes across the room. "I know. I get it."

"No, I don't think you do."

Sam sighs patiently, knowing he has to stay calm and non-antagonistic here, to strike a rather important and fragile emotional balance. If he starts to freak out, it will only send his brother over the edge. "Dean, this kind of thing doesn't just _happen_. This is something that was done to you."

Irritated, Dean scrubs his eyes roughly. He squints around an obvious headache, not to mention the smear of gun oil he's just inadvertently swiped high on his cheek. "Then fix it, brainiac."

Sam leans back and sweeps an arm in an arc over the computer, notebook and journal spread out on the table. "What do you think I'm doing?" He sighs. "Just…sit tight. Okay?"

Dean sniffs and shakes his head. "Nah, you know what? Screw this." He leans down and rips a beer from the cooler by his boots.

If he's aiming to do some experimenting, Sam would prefer he do so with water, but the look in Dean's eyes as he twists off the bottle cap isn't inviting much critique of his actions at the moment.

He throws his head back and takes a pull from the bottle, throat working around an unnatural, and probably dangerously-sized, mouthful of beer. Dean drains nearly half the bottle, then runs the pad of his thumb along his bottom lip, wiping away a drip, and raises his eyebrows smugly. "Yeah? Looks like I showed that curse who's – "

And then he drops to the floor on his hands and knees, half-full bottle tumbling next to him, spilling its contents to join the puddle of what Dean is currently violently expelling onto the already stained carpeting.

"Okay, stop doing that," Sam finally orders as he jumps up from his chair and rushes to his brother's side. Dean shoots him a red-eyed glare and Sam pulls away, moves instead to straighten the overturned bottle, but more than enough mess has been made. "The more you…do _that_ , the more fluids you're losing, and until we figure something out, there's no way to get those back."

"English," Dean rasps, pounding a frustrated fist against the carpet.

"You're going to get dehydrated." Sam thinks a moment about how aggravated Dean is, the headache he's squinting around. "If you aren't already." All jokes about perpetual hunger pains aside, that's the real, more immediate problem they're facing here.

Sam pats his brother uselessly on the back and glances at his watch. Six hours in, and he's got no freaking clue where this is coming from, or where to go from here. "That's it. I'm calling in reinforcements."

* * *

Dean is slouched on the bench, arms crossed and sunglasses preventing the afternoon glare from exacerbating the headache that's followed him into the Impala. Sam can throw his weight around when he needs to, and the result is an incredibly sulky, pissed big brother. Pissed that he's hungry, pissed that he's thirsty, pissed that he's been plopped into the passenger seat of his own car.

 _Dehydration,_ Sam thinks again, trying not to fall into the trap of home-diagnosing when this might just be typical Dean moodiness, trying not to work himself into a frenzy of worry and panic _just_ yet, but he knows that dehydration is nothing to fuck around with. He's seen it, he's BEEN there; it's a hazard of the job, long days and longer nights and sometimes simple necessities like drinking enough water or eating more than candy for dinner have a tendency to slip your mind. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "You all right, man?"

Dean swivels his head, and he doesn't need to remove the shades for Sam to feel the burn of his gaze.

"Yeah," Sam concedes. "Okay. That was a stupid question."

Dean doesn't respond, just returns his aggravated stare to the passing tree line.

Music is there in the background, but the radio is turned low and tuned to a station that's sure to be cutting away to static within minutes and miles as the Impala rapidly devours westbound two-lane asphalt. She's nowhere near her top speed, but the longer this ordeal goes on, the more Sam's foot is twitching to make Dean proud and lay the pedal down.

They're yet to come out of the other side of Indiana, not even close to Bobby, not to mention his seemingly endless supply of books and random knowledge. Sam shifts his hands around the steering wheel and glances down at his watch, wincing at the seconds that are too quickly turning into minutes as they tick past. He wrestles his larger, arguably more relevant and advanced cell phone from his jacket pocket and tosses it into Dean's lap.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Research…something." Sam waves his hand. "We've got a long drive, and it's not like you're getting better."

Dean rolls the device around in his hands. "I'm just gonna Google 'why is my brother such a pretentious ass.'"

Under better circumstances, Sam might jump at the chance to call Dean's bluff and force him to spell the word _pretentious,_ but as it stands, he just jerks his head to the left, eliciting a _crack_ that is only mildly satisfying. "Whatever, man."

Dean snorts. "This is MY ass on the line, Sam. Not yours. I don't know why you're being all…you know, THIS, about it."

Sam's immediate inherent response of indignation has him pulling his hands from the wheel to gesture emphatically but he catches himself, replacing them to soft, worn leather before the car drifts from the lane. "What is THIS, Dean?" he snaps, instead. "Driving your ass across the country to the one guy who might have an answer as to why you can't even take a damn drink of water?"

Dean is quiet a moment, staring down at Sam's dark cell phone in his hands. "Sorry," he mumbles, barely audible.

Pre-Hell Dean wouldn't have apologized, and it throws Sam. "What?"

"Shut up."

That's a little better, slightly more in character, and Sam feels his fingers relax around the leather.

The sunglasses stay perched firmly atop his nose, but Dean brings up the phone's web browser, licking dry lips.

Sam shoots his brother a sideways glance, taking in Dean's relatively pale complexion and the lines of tension pulling at his temple and the corner of his eye, from a raging headache that's showing no signs of surrender. He swallows, feeling a tug of thirst himself, but he'll be damned before he throws that small, overlooked luxury in Dean's face right now. "You know, with all of your spit takes this morning…"

"Yeah," Dean prods, with obvious reluctance.

"You're kinda lucky you didn't go for the coffee first." Sam lifts a shoulder and offers a small smile, because he has nothing in the way of actual comfort to offer at the moment. "Just a thought."

"Yeah. Right."

The music is gone now, given way to the high-pitched whine of between-frequency white noise. Dean notices and reaches toward the radio, but instead of manipulating the dial until he finds a recognizable song on a new station, he simply flicks the knob to bring the car to complete silence.

"Headache?" Sam asks needlessly, to fill the sound void.

"S'not too bad."

 _Yet._ "You know," Sam ventures again, knowing there isn't much to lose here. At least, nothing he hasn't already lost once this calendar year. Like Dean dying all over again wouldn't sting worse than a paper cut. This is the best performance he's ever given. "You need to say something when it does get bad."

Not _if._ They've moved this party well beyond the territory of _if._

Even so, Dean should be slapping the back of his head and calling him a girl. A princess. Not sighing dejectedly. Not bobbing his head in a manner much too like defeat and saying, "Yeah, I know."

But this isn't Pre-Hell Dean, and they may very well be in trouble here.

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	2. Part II

_For those keeping track at home, four of the ten aforementioned prompt requirements are met in this chapter._

* * *

 _Part II_

"We're thinking witches," Sam pointlessly announces as he deposits a sulky, grumbling Dean into the padded armchair in Bobby's library, because the idiot was seconds from stumbling his dizzy ass straight into a wall.

Dean attempts feebly to kick Sam away, but only succeeds in sending the rolling desk chair sailing backwards across the room to collide with one of the bookcases. A thick, leather-bound book slides off of a shelf over his head and thumps into his lap. "Not WE," he grumbles, tongue rolling against his teeth. "You. YOU'RE thinkin' witches."

Bobby shakes his head. He knows the basics, facts and symptoms spewed over the phone at a speed to set the record until he'd told Sam to slow the hell down and put a real thought and sentence together. Presumably, he's been nose-deep in his books ever since they hit the road, rerouting to follow some less vague, more direct line of research whenever Sam checked in with a new thought or idea. And now it's time for the grand reveal. "S'what you said on the phone, but, Sam, this is no spell I've ever heard of."

Disappointing as far as grand reveals go, to say the least. Frustrated, Sam fidgets, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket sleeves.

"Have you heard of _all_ the spells, Bobby?" Dean demands sourly, despite his contradictory anti-witchy thoughts, and flings the thick tome to the hardwood with an echoing _smack_.

Sam winces and shakes his head disapprovingly at his brother, though he's thankful for the opportunity to redirect his nervous energy. "He's a little grumpy," he explains by way of apology.

Bobby pops one eyebrow. "No kidding. How long?"

"Pretty much forever." Sam's cracking half-assed jokes for Dean's benefit, because the last couple of hours in the car had been hell – relatively speaking – but neither of the other hunters is having it.

In fact, Bobby kind of looks like he wants to hit him. He leans over the wide desk, thick books open and covering the entirety of the sizeable surface. "How long's he not been able to eat or drink anything?"

"Almost twenty hours." Sam swallows, knowing exactly how bad that sounds, how bad that IS.

Bobby's head bobs but his expression doesn't change. "You two boneheads even come across any witches the past few days?"

"None that were wearing the club t-shirts, no," Dean speaks up.

Sam shoots his brother a withering glare and Bobby quirks that eyebrow again. "Y'want me to sedate him?"

Sam sighs. The man's idea is not without its merits. "We're not there yet."

"We is ME," Dean says pointedly, shoving up from the desk chair. "And me is standing right here. Right here."

Bobby looks between the two. "Twenty hours?"

Sam nods.

"Should probably start some fluids."

There's an accusation lying beneath Bobby's words, and Sam rubs the back of his head. "Yeah, I figured as much, like, half a day ago, but his dumb ass wouldn't let me take him to a hospital." It's unseemly for him to lay any blame on Dean here, but the words come too easily to stop them in time. "Convinced him to come to you, instead."

 _Instead,_ as though the ramshackle farmhouse is as good as a sterile hospital room. It's all a moot point, because when Dean puts his foot down, there's no moving it until the body attached to that foot is limp with unconsciousness and therefore easier to relocate.

"From Ohio?" Bobby asks with wide eyes. "Wasted a hell of a lot of time doing that."

"Yeah," Sam starts as anger begin to churn in his gut, from being talked to like a stupid child. Like he doesn't KNOW all of this already.

Thankfully, Dean has now had enough time to assemble the puzzle Sam and Bobby's words have created in the atmosphere of the room. He was able to connect the dots between _fluids_ and _IV_ fairly quickly, considering he's still trudging through the headache of his increasing state of dehydration.

"Um, hello?" he asks with a bite, raising his hand. He loses his balance and trips backwards into the bookcase, taking away any of the poise of his follow-up question. "Do I get a vote here?"

"No," Sam says with a forced smile and put-upon patience as Bobby leaves the room to fetch the necessary supplies. He points to the lumpy couch under the picture window. "You get an IV."

* * *

"You know," Dean says, breaking the heavy, hungry silence that has settled over the room. His voice is as rough and dry as one would expect it to be, given the circumstances. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

It had taken a fair bit of pissiness and manhandling to get him here, but Dean is at last stretched out and looking sick on the couch, boots dirty but crossed and propped up on the armrest. The arm with the IV inserted is laid just so at his side and his left arm is crooked and tucked under his head like a pillow. Sam has found himself a window of extremely specific space so small, he can reach out to smack Dean's opposite hand away when he moves intermittently to fiddle with the thing, but Dean can't quite reach him back due to the placement of the line.

Sam drops his hand from where it's been cradling his chin and straightens from his vigilant lean against the desktop. There are a few open books next to his elbow whose existence he's doing a fine job of ignoring, but he's not too worried about the books, because he's starting to get a feeling in his gut more and more that the answer isn't going to come from any of these dusty pages. "What doesn't matter?"

"That I can't eat," Dean says hollowly, shifting enough to withdraw his left arm and rub at his nose with a finger from that hand. "I'm not hungry, anyway."

"That's because you're dehydrated, Dean. It's a symptom, not a good thing," Sam snips, growing more and more agitated as the afternoon wears on. Solidarity has its place and all, but he's getting pretty damn hungry, himself.

Sam studies his brother. His color is better, from the fluids Bobby's gotten into him, and he's only half a bag in. Still, he doesn't get his hopes up, because if anything, this is a temporary fix they're in the middle of.

Dean looks up, gives the IV stand above his head the same expression Sam gets when he suggests a place to stop for dinner. Complete aggravation with a dash of dissatisfaction. "Hey, Sam, do me a favor?" he asks without looking over. "Switch that up with some whiskey?"

Sam shakes his head, glaring at the side of his brother's head. "This isn't funny, Dean."

Dean sighs and settles his arm back under his head, resumes staring at the ceiling. "Yeah, and I'm not laughing."

His brother wasn't ever able to stay so long in one place, in one position, wasn't ever this damn STILL before Hell. Sam chews the inside of his cheek. "Maybe I should call – "

"So help me God, Sammy, if you even _say_ that bitch's name…"

Sam clenches his jaw stubbornly but complies. He doesn't shut up, but he doesn't say Ruby's name. "If this is some kind of spell, there's a chance she'd know something about it, Dean. When she was human, she was a witch."

"Then it was probably her who did this, Sam. It's not like we're besties."

"Just because she thinks you're a jerk doesn't mean she'd kill you." Sam forces a smile. "I mean, _I_ think you're a jerk."

"Yeah, and how many times have you tried to kill me?"

"Fine," Sam sighs. He fidgets and shoots a glance across the room, spots a maroon and black checked fleece-lined throw tossed over the back of what was once a nice dining room chair but is now a dust covered catch-all in a corner. "You want a blanket?" he asks, somewhat stupidly.

"Only if you want me to tie it in a knot and choke you with it."

The delivery is off but the words are right, so Sam does his part and cracks a smile in return. "I'm not gonna let that get to me, because I know enough to know that irritability is also a symptom of dehydration."

Dean fidgets again, scratching at the needle in his arm, and Sam is quick to smack his hand away even though it's nice to see he's not just lying down and taking this. "Whatever makes you feel better, Sammy," Dean says dully, his nose wrinkled in displeasure.

Bobby clomps an ungraceful but comforting return, and two sets of wide, hopeful eyes trail his movements as he joins them in the room with a large drive-thru bag balanced precariously atop a pair of new books from the library.

Dean breaks eye contact almost immediately, sniffs and tilts his head back to gaze up at the moldy, much-marked over ceiling. He stays curiously silent and brooding, conceding the lead to his little brother. Another new, unfamiliar, Post-Hell personality trait that has Sam's stomach flipping uncomfortably.

"Anything?" Sam begrudgingly obliges, though the expression Bobby wears is answer enough, and probably the real cause of Dean's silence. That, or the unmistakable scent of deep-fried wonderment the man's got in his hands.

Bobby shakes his head and continues across the study, dropping the pair of new books to the desk and handing Sam the bag of food. He's quick to set it aside out of Dean's eye line.

Bobby checks the fluid left in the bag hanging from the stand behind the couch, large calloused fingers trailing the delicate line into Dean's arm. "Seems to be taking okay?"

Dean sniffs and nods, bringing his arm up enough to glare at the intrusion of the needle. "Think so."

"So there's that," Bobby comments, fingers scraping over his short beard.

"Yeah," Sam says, having already had the same thoughts a quarter of a bag ago. Dozens of French fry sticks call his name from the greasy bag on the desktop, like tiny hostages screaming for rescue. He scoots his chair further into the center of the room.

"There's what?" Dean pipes up, eyes darting between the two.

"And he doesn't have a mark on him," Bobby continues, ignoring Dean. "Or so he says."

"So he KNOWS." Dean argues with a fair amount of indignation, finally shoving up gingerly into a more seated position, with an angry jerk of his chin at the IV line in his arm. "This thing is invasive enough. You two perverts aren't gettin' me to strip down."

"Yeah. Right," Sam huffs, despite knowing exactly how little there is to be gained by doing so. "We just have to trust that you're telling us everything that's going on with you."

He's not talking only about this current predicament but the overall and lingering effects of the literal Hell he's been through, and his brother's narrowing eyes are not only evidence that Dean knows it, but also carry something of their own accusation. Sam supposes he's right, that _he_ hasn't been the most forthcoming with personal details of late, and they might be in something of a pot, kettle situation here, but that's not the most pressing issue at hand.

He shifts his eyes to the books Bobby has just deposited, fighting to ignore the grumble tearing through his stomach, the ache yawning that the sight of the fast food bag next to them. "You need help with these?"

Bobby nods. "We sure we're just gonna rule out something natural bein' the cause of this? Somethin' medical?"

"What're you sayin', Bobby?" Dean asks coolly. "You think that I just came back from Hell wrong?"

"No, he's not saying that," Sam interjects forcefully. "This isn't medical. Someone did this." He stands and gathers the library books under his arm.

Bobby sternly picks up the takeout and plants it firmly against Sam's chest, forcing him to reach up to cradle the bag and no doubt leaving a smudge of grease on his button-down.

Sam's eyes drift down to the phenomenal-smelling bag and move immediately to take in Dean's pinched expression across the room. "Bobby…"

"Stop tryin' to be so damn _good,_ Sam, and eat something. You're no good to your brother if you fall down."

"He's right, Sammy," Dean agrees, his voice dry, tone lifeless and unfamiliar. "Just because I can't eat doesn't mean you have to starve with me."

Sam swallows with some difficulty. "You good?" he asks Dean.

Dean nods curtly. "You two go enjoy your lunch. You need me, I'll just be hangin' out here with my new best friend." He reaches out and wraps his fist around the thin stand to his right. "Think I'll call 'im Standley." He waggles his eyebrows, but underneath, his eyes are dull. "Get it?"

Bobby crosses his arms and stares back a moment. Suddenly he turns on his heel and leaves the room, leaving behind the echo of boot soles on hardwood and the _smack_ of the screened door in the kitchen.

"Don't know why he's so grumpy," Dean mumbles, kicking the heel of his heavy boot against the floor. "I'm the one with the tagalong, here."

"Maybe be just a little less of an ass, huh?" Sam suggests, because he knows what Dean responds to, and it's not going to be kid gloves and coddling.

"Whatever."

The aluminum framed door _squeaks_ and _smacks_ once more, and Bobby aggressively reenters the library with an armload of a large, dusty utterly ancient police scanner. It looks as though it may very well be the first police scanner that there ever was. With some of the things he's seen in Bobby's stores, Sam wouldn't be that surprised. The hunter drops the heavy bit of electronics to the desktop next to Sam and a cloud of dust envelopes them both. He sneezes, then leans in to inspect the merchandise.

"What trash heap did you dig this thing out of, Bobby?" Dean asks, also leaning forward and squinting at the scanner, a boxy contraption with too many buttons, switches and knobs to count.

"The same one I'm two seconds from throwin' your mopey smartass into. Mind your manners, boy. You're in _my_ house." Bobby throws his hands up. "And I'm not gonna sit here in my house and watch you both stew and sulk. Sam, you're with me and the books and the food. Dean…" he points to the busted radio. "I wanna hear static comin' outta this before that bag's run dry."

Dean recoils like a scolded child, eyes shifting up to the bag of fluids above his head. "What – Bobby – "

"Keep talkin' and you can clean the spare bedroom," Bobby threatens with raised brows.

It's no hollow threat, and not one to be taken lightly. Both Winchesters had been chored with tidying the room as misbehaving children, a veritable clusterfuck of the hunter's collected and hoarded nonsense. Years upon years' worth of found and pilfered crap boxed and stacked into dangerously tall formations, much like a maze. It's what Sam imagines the compiled hidden objects in the Room of Requirement to look like, in his mind's eye, though that not an observation he's ever put verbal words to. He once found half a raccoon inside a milk carton overflowing with extension cords, and has no doubt there are still examples of both living and dead wildlife somewhere in the depths of the piles.

Dean swallows and coughs a little, maybe trying to play the sympathy card, and curls his lip when he sees it's not working. He glances once more up at the bag of fluid to gauge the time he's got to complete his assignment, which would be a daunting task for anyone. Except Dean, who turned a busted Walkman into a working EMF detector, and has rebuilt the Impala to mint condition from little more than a scrap heap. "Fine."

Like there was any chance in hell he was going to back down from this challenge. Sam'll give the man this much: Bobby knows what he's doing.

* * *

"Bobby, I don't even know what I'm supposed to be looking for," Sam says, slamming shut his book in frustration. Eyes rolled toward the clock on the wall confirm that less than an hour has passed. Once again it crosses his mind that Ruby might be a resource they shouldn't turn up their noses at here, but he knows exactly how far that suggestion is going to go with Dean, and he wouldn't even know how to breach the subject with Bobby. When Dean is skittish about something, it exacerbates the older hunter's inherent paranoia. Even when he's acting as Bobby's partner in research, Sam sometimes feels like the odd one out when the three are together.

Bobby sighs and leans back in his chair. He pulls the worn mesh-fronted hat from his head and tosses it to the tabletop, sets his calloused fingertips rubbing tired eyes. His hesitance is only evidence of his own lack of answers. He stalls even longer, rising completely from his chair and moving to the counter to pour a sizeable glass of whiskey. He turns to lean against the edge and sips his drink before finally conceding, "We widen the search. Start diggin' into other cultures and older lore." He pauses for another sip. "Probably wouldn't hurt to back trace your steps the last few days, take note of anything out of the ordinary."

Sam snorts and plays with the crisped tip of a long-cold fry. "Bobby, in our lives, out of the ordinary kind of becomes the ordinary, you know? I wouldn't even know where to start."

"Ha HA!" Dean suddenly exclaims from the library. When Sam and Bobby converge on him in the room, he's leaning on the desk looking smug, if not still a little pale. He Vanna White's the lit up, crackling police scanner in front of him. "Suck it, Singer!"

Bobby pops an eyebrow, though Sam can tell he's satisfied the play with the scanner worked.

Dean winces and averts his eyes, goes to work picking the IV needle out of his arm. "Or just, you know, ha ha."

"Mm hmm," Bobby hums, hand outstretched, a cotton ball having materialized there like some kind of reward.

Which is exactly what it is to Dean, a treat in the form of permission to yank the offending needle from his vein. He doesn't hesitate, doing so with gusto and a hiss, and crams the cotton ball to the blood welling from the small hole there.

The police scanner continues to crackle, and just as Sam is moving to flip the thing off, a frantic female voice pops and statics out of the speaker.

Each hunter pounces like street dogs warring over a bone.

Somehow Dean beats Sam to the knob, turning up the volume to catch the full dispatch report of some sort of animal mauling in the woods of the Big Sioux Recreation Center. A deer, and, much more concerning, two teens.

"Dean," Sam says quickly, in an attempt to cut his brother off at the pass. "It's probably just an animal."

"When is it EVER just an animal, Sam?"

"Now, just hold on a damn minute," Bobby cuts in, leveling a stern gaze at Dean. "Regardless of any point you might have there, kid, your brother's got one just as valid. Last thing you need to do right now is to going traipsin' through the damn woods huntin.' For _anything_."

"No, that's exactly what I need to be doing, Bobby." Dean presses the cotton ball into the crook of his elbow and sneers at the IV pole that's been trailing him for the past few hours. "How long you think I can go before I need another one of these?"

Bobby's eyes narrow. "There's no way to know for – "

"Perfect," Dean replies brightly, or as close to such as he can muster. "Plenty of time."

"Dean," Sam says seriously, having had just about enough of this.

"What's the problem? Bobby keeps hittin' the books and we get to kill something." Dean's already looking around the house for where he'd deposited his jacket earlier. "Sure as hell beats sittin' here with you giving me deathbed eyes."

"I'm not giving you – " Sam pauses, takes a breath. "Dean, Bobby's right. On the off-chance that this is anything more than a wild animal, you are HARDLY in a condition to go out hunting for something that is ripping people apart."

Dean grins big, bumps Sam with his elbow and completely ignores everything he's just said. "You know what, Sammy? If it's something new, I'll even let you name it."

"Dean – "

Dean accepts the strip of tape Bobby's begrudgingly holding out and pats down the cotton ball. "Full tank, Sammy. I'm golden. Let's go kill something fugly."

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	3. Part III

_Part III_

Dean's been in the game long enough that being slowed down just a step still leaves him pretty damn fast and nimble. But two steps…two steps down and something new and nasty gets its paws around his throat just as easily as the next shmuck.

They found the thing so easily it should have shot up warning flares, come with a big neon sign jutting from the brush, declaring simply, "DUH."

It's big and black and picking bits of Bambi from its teeth at the edge of a creek cutting through the woods, mere paces off of the trail they'd taken from the road. Not deep into the woods at all. But Sam wasn't up to feeling suspicious, just giddy at the thought of ganking the thing and getting Dean's pale, stubborn, thirsty ass back to Bobby's house in record time.

Sam can only think of it as "the thing," can't take Dean up on his offer to name "the thing" when "the thing" is blurry and faraway but doing a damn fine job of ripping his brother's arm from the rest of him.

"The thing" is rippling with muscles, covered in thick fur like a bear and moving around on all fours. Like a bear. But this is no bear, and it's a hell of a lot bigger than they'd packed for, with claws like curled talons and a fucking mouthful of gnashing teeth. Both are more or less to be expected, given the brief, breathless report of shredded kids and wildlife they'd heard over the good-as-new scanner.

Sam will later find a way to blame this entire incident on Bobby. But that's later, because currently, "the thing" also has a mouthful of Dean, strong jaws clamped HARD on his arm and swinging him about like a rag doll. His legs scramble for purchase as his boots skip along the ground, fighting not to lose any balance he might have the strength to have left. If Sam really thinks about it, this entire tableau was probably also more to less to be expected. Because that's exactly the kind of luck they have.

 _How fucking MORONIC are you?_ Sam berates himself from his splayed position in the dirt, because when all is said and done, this was his lead to take, a lead Dean all but handed to him back at the house, and they have no business being out here. DEAN has no business being out here. Not when he's on the bad end of some sort of supernatural affliction that's on the road to killing him, even if it's taking the scenic route. But Dean could be missing an arm and he'd just bump Sam with his remaining elbow, call it a flesh wound in an abysmal British accent, and suggest they go out for beers and strippers. And Sam would just nod and say, yeah, Dean, that sounds great.

 _IDIOT._

Sam levels up on his elbows, finding himself to be a little fuzzy on how the pieces came to be in this _exact_ formation on the board; he might be missing a small bit of time here, because Dean, eyes bright and shiny, ignoring the egg timer on his shoulder and ready for a fight, was _just_ standing next to him with a machete in one hand and a blow torch in the other. A scan of the ground around Sam's sluggishly flailing feet reveals that neither is anywhere to be seen now.

Sam also hazily knows that, somewhere along the line, he also had a weapon of some kind…

Shotgun. Pump action. Very effective on all manner of nasties. Current whereabouts unknown, lost in the kerfuffle along with the machete and blow torch.

 _Covering the bases, Sammy,_ Dean had said once they'd pretexted their way easily past the pitiful police barricade consisting of a single green, eager deputy more interested in his turkey sandwich than their FBI badges, as they'd loaded up virtually one of everything into their bags from the lifted false bottom of the Impala's trunk. _Covering the bases._ Like he's some sort of goddamn tactical savant. _SOMETHING will kill it._ And Sam had just nodded and thought, _yeah, Dean, that sounds great._

Sam's not naked; he's still got a switchblade in his back pocket, jabbing him in the ass as he kicks against the dirt and fights the overwhelming urge to vomit. The tiny blade seems pale by comparison, coupled with the pathetic fact that he's just now ready to give standing a try.

Across the way Dean's face is chalk-white as his fingers form his own set of makeshift claws, pawing frantically at the snout of the thing slobbering a foul-smelling spit all over him and trying to tear his arm clean off. He abandons finger-fighting pretty quickly, twists and throws his left hand behind to the Bowie lashed to his belt. He wrenches the knife free from its sheath and roars wordlessly as he drives it into the creature's neck. Despite the violence of the motion, it seems to be more _get the fuck off me_ than _die bitch die_ , and it works.

The thing whips its head as it releases him, and Dean stumbles back a few steps before crashing down hard on his ass. Once he's on the ground he stays there, falls back in a cloud of dust with his right arm folded over his middle.

 _Danger, Will Robinson,_ Sam thinks over the alarm bells screaming in his head, because there's still something big and deadly and unfamiliar right here in the woods with them, and Dean isn't one to lie down on the job before the job is finished.

Sam swallows his nausea and flings himself onto his hands and knees in the dirt. His vision is blurry and that's concerning but has to take a back seat while he scours the tall grass and leaves for any of their misplaced weaponry. He spots a nonspecific glint to his left and scurries through the brush in that direction, fingers wrapping around the familiar hilt of the machete. It feels about fifty pounds in weight but he hefts the blade as confidently and quickly as he can manage, and shoves himself all the way to his feet.

Sam notes with worry that Dean has yet to make a reappearance in the vertical world, but he forces his eyes away from his injured brother and spots "the thing" about ten yards away, keening and writhing and snapping its bloody jaws at the knife buried in its throat.

 _Can't bite us without its fucking head,_ Sam reasons. He can't really see clearly enough to know for sure but he swings with everything he's got at where his instincts tell him the son of a bitch's neck is.

The long blade skips around the hilt of Dean's knife before burying in meat and muscle. A clean strike but an odd angle, and a thick neck, and Sam staggers a bit with the force of it, body torqueing against the right leg he'd planted for the offensive attack. A sharp pain flares in his knee and spreads like a flame throughout his limb.

Sam groans and hauls the machete back, brings it around again, and again, and proceeds to hack like a crazed lunatic until the furry, horned head is rolling away into the brush with his brother's blood staining its teeth.

 _Huh._ He hadn't even noticed the horns until now. He drops the blade and goes to work immediately scouring the area for his fallen brother, but his body seems to have other things on the agenda, right knee buckling as he attempts to step forward. He hisses and settles for hop-dragging the leg along, picking up the pace when he locates the fuzzy shape of Dean struggling – and failing – to rise from where he'd gone down.

It's just getting dark enough, and Sam's vision is just blurry enough, that he can't properly catalogue the full array of damage done. He knows there's blood, a lot of it, and that's his priority. The sight of the blood sets his heart into a frantic skip and he trips in his haste to cover the space between them, hits the deck in such a manner, he wouldn't be getting back to his feet on his own under other circumstances. He knows he has to get up and moving and lend some aid here, but _boy_ , if it isn't tough.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is small and strained and ties Sam's already churning gut into a knot that's become familiar in a way he truly detests.

"Yeah, I know" comes out "Yeammmfguuuu" around a mouthful of dirt.

Dean laughs a short, scared, humorless bark. "Okay, 'cause I don't know if you remember, but I got a bit of a situation here."

And Sam knows, that admission of Dean's should mean something.

"Yeah," he forces out, and in English this time, so that's a plus. Sam shoves up to his hands and knees with a groan. The trees around him spin and blur, and based on the suspicious flashing in the periphery of his field of vision, there might be something akin to a strobe light somewhere behind them. Or maybe it's just him. He closes his eyes – just for a moment – and his heavy head starts to droop.

"So you can't pass out," Dean orders, voice cracking.

Sam's going to figure out much, much later that the son of bitch was terrified he'd go back straight back to Hell if he died again. And it will kill some little part of Sam he often neglects.

"Wasn't gonna," Sam lies, and pushes up off of the dirt. He finds his feet, and then misplaces them just as quickly, balance in the wind as he trots sideways with his arms out like a stumbling toddler. He crashes back to his knees, and promptly throws up all over the missing pump action shotgun.

"We are so screwed."

"Nope." Sam shakes his head, surprised but thankful to see things are coming a bit more into focus as he does so. "I'm good now."

"Yeah," Dean mutters around another shaky, unamused laugh, and not at all in a way that speaks to his belief in Sam.

Sam gives up on walking and does his best to crawl the rest of the way to Dean's side, where his brother's pressing his left hand over the ravaged section of his right arm. There's still blood visible just about…well, _everywhere_ , and Dean kind of has a wide-eyed look of shock on his face. Sam honestly thinks his brother is worried about or screwing with him before it dawns on him that – _HELLO_ – Dean might actually just be IN SHOCK.

And that's when it is horribly, painfully obvious to Sam that he isn't going to be dealing with a full deck while he gets Dean foremost stabilized, secondly back to the Impala, and finally returned to Bobby. Who will hopefully be waiting on the porch to greet Sam with a strong drink and an ice pack, and Dean with a row of neat stitches, another bag of the good stuff, and a cure for whatever is fucking with him.

"Okay," Sam says, swallowing back nausea and gathering himself, setting his inner dial to triage mode. "Okay, lemme see it."

Dean lips are pressed into a thin white line as he lifts his hand from the bloody, shredded mess around his elbow. With the sheer volume of blood coating the area, it's difficult to tell where jacket becomes shirtsleeve and shirtsleeve gives way to the mauled skin underneath. None of it is good.

Sam takes in the sight, registers what damage he can see with clarity, and realizes that he doesn't _quite_ trust himself enough with the switchblade to cut Dean's sleeves away without also slicing his brother's brachial artery. Blood is pumping sluggishly from the wounds, but it isn't in the way of a bright spurt that would be evidence of an arterial injury, so Sam figures wrapping the entire package up as is and getting them both somewhere less middle of nowhere-y is going to be the best way to approach this. "Can you move 'em?"

Dean grits his teeth and successfully wiggles all of his fingers.

Sam nods, and pain flares behind his temple. He realizes that it's very likely he's about to puke again, directly into his brother's lap, and crabs backward, wayward hand happening upon the familiar feel of the canvas weapons bag. Thankful for the distraction, he hauls the duffel around into his lap, yanks open the zipper and begins rifling through the contents. His fingers close around the warmed plastic of a bottled water and he twists off the cap, pulls in enough to rinse his mouth and spits the residue to the side. It kind of feels like heaven.

"Here," Sam says, shoving the bottle into Dean's hands, because if the mouthful of water helped him feel better it's bound to do wonders for his shock-y, bleeding brother. "Drink."

Dean's gone into the quiet, mute corner of his mind where he goes to escape profound physical pain, and when he's in this particular corner he listens to Sam quite well. Trusts him. So he grabs the offered bottle, thin plastic crinkling between his spasming fingers, and pulls in his own greedy mouthful of water.

He's going for a second drink when he chokes, coughs, and rolls quickly to the side. He vomits a small, fast rush of pink water into a pile on the leaves, his right arm quaking under the strain.

 _Fuck me_ , Sam thinks with far more clarity than anything he's attempted to say. He drags himself on his knees until he's next his brother, grasping handfuls of cargo jacket at both shoulders in an attempt to alleviate some of the weight from Dean's mangled right arm.

"That one's on me," he says stupidly, voice shaking and knowing Dean's beyond hearing him anyway. Sam's hands move back to the bag, finding a half-shot roll of clean enough gauze he hurries to send around Dean's arm, over and over until the roll is spent, telling himself that he didn't catch a glimpse of bone in the process.

Dean hums a high-pitched acknowledgement of his pain as Sam ties off the strip of gauze. "S'it dead?" he asks with his eyes closed.

"Yeah."

"What killed it?"

"Not having a head," Sam answers, frowning at Dean, who is not quite so naturally inquisitive. Dead is dead and _dead_ is typically a good enough answer. "You good?"

"Mmm hmm." Dean's head bobs but it's not at all convincing. "What was it?"

Sam sighs, finally, however fuzzily, realizing Dean's talking is a form of pain management. "No clue."

"Need to…you need to do somethin' 'bout the body."

"Birds'll get it, man. We've got other things to worry about." Sam loops his arm through the straps of the duffel bag and slides it over his shoulder. He then uses the trunk of a tree to maneuver himself into a somewhat standing position and flexes his right leg, testing his mobility. Which is not great, but he can make do. He spares a glance down at his mostly prone and stupidly pale big brother and then sets about to hobbling around the area in an attempt to locate all of their missing weaponry.

"You have to stop moving, Sam," Dean sighs from where he's leaned back against the same tree that has already lent Sam an assist. His eyes are closed in his stark white face, and he's looking like he might be on the verge on the same gastrointestinal gymnastics Sam has been practicing all over the clearing.

Speaking of…Sam wrinkles his nose as he trips over the sick-covered shotgun. Might be giving that one up for lost this time. "I can't."

Dean exhales and his head bobs again. "I know." He's given up holding his arm and it's laying a bit more limply across his lap, still racked with spasms of pain.

Sam frowns, sliding the blow torch into the weapons bag like the final piece in this shitstorm puzzle. "You ready to try getting up?"

"Sure." Dean's expression speaks volumes to the contrary. "Why the hell not."

* * *

"Okay," Sam breathes as they move through the woods. There's _no_ way they strayed this far from the car. No _fucking_ way they wandered so far that neither cell phone is getting a signal _._ His vision swims again and his knee is tight with swelling, making it more and more difficult to press on, but he can't stop. He gives Dean's rubbery arm a tug, adjusts his grip on the frigid wrist perched over his shoulder. "Okay."

What he means is, _we might be in some trouble here._ But he can't say that out loud. There's a canyon spanning the space between the camps of pain and injury, and the distinction between the two is currently echoed in their individual predicaments. It hurts, sure, but Sam's on the better end of this shit stick. "Okay."

"Stop sayin' that, Sammy," Dean complains in a tight voice, the words forced through clenched teeth. Every dozen or so steps he throws a half-assed attempt at shucking Sam's support and shoving him away, only to drunkenly skitter sideways into a tree or bush or once all the way to the ground on his knees.

"Okay," Sam says, then winces. "Sorry."

"Whatever. We positive there was only…only one of these mothers?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Pretty sure I'm leavin' a trail."

Sam stops, blinks stupidly at Dean's blood glistening on the bright fall foliage they're brushing past. Christmas colors, a bit too early in the season. "Okay. Yeah," he says again, wetting his bottom lip. "Pretty sure it's just the one."

"Good, because, talk about a shit creek without a paddle," Dean jokes half-heartedly, forcing a laugh on the heel of his words.

Sam's knee is being stubborn but Dean's legs have all but given up on him entirely, and Sam isn't sure how much longer he'll be able to compensate. It's been too long since he's met up with Ruby. He's not strong enough to do this, to get Dean out of here. He NEEDS the blood. Maybe if he had it, if he'd been stronger…maybe he would have been able to stop some this. What he says is, "Shut up, already."

"Sam…" Dean stops walking, or more accurately, stops allowing himself to be dragged along, and scratches a sandpaper tongue uselessly over cracked lips. "Worst case scenario…"

Sam's fingers tighten around the heavy material of Dean's jacket, clinging to the fabric like a lifeline. "We are nowhere NEAR worst case scenario territory." Even so, his eyes flick to the soaked-through bandages wrapping Dean's arm.

"Yet."

If they don't stumble upon the Impala in the next ten minutes or so, Dean might not be so wrong here. He's lost a lot of blood and Sam has no cell signal and no way to get so much as a glass of water down his throat to help him out, and it's a hell of a lot more than water that he needs at the moment. "Well, we'll deal with that when – IF – we get there. Not before."

"Yeah," Dean says, barely above an exhale of cool breath. The pallor of his face is giving the white face of the rising moon overhead a run for its money. "What the hell is going on, man?"

 _Where do I start?_ "What do you mean?"

"This…" Dean swallows roughly. "Spell, curse, complete fuck-tastrophy goin' on, and then we just happen to get that police scanner workin' at the exact moment to hear a report come in about some bassackwards creature we've never seen before?" He scoffs, coughs, and stumbles into Sam. "And it was way too easy, gettin' past that LEO at the roadblock."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. Then he stops suddenly in his tracks, brother staggering to a pause at his side.

Dean throws his left arm out against a tree to catch his slumping weight. He looks tired, sick, and frustrated. "What?"

Sam fidgets, shifting his weight from his shaky leg. "No, it's just, you…you're right."

Dean grins, or grimaces, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "Usually am."

"No. Dean, you're _right_. This whole thing, everything going on is just…way too fucking weird. It's so weird that it would all almost _have_ to be connected."

Dean sighs and leans more heavily against the trunk of the tree. "Sammy. Shit happens. And when you're us? Shit happens a lot. You're gonna give yourself an aneurism if you play Connect the Dots when there's nothin' to connect."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right. There's nothing to…" Sam limps forward to pull Dean away from the tree and haul the final stretch back to the car, then pauses, stops talking but his lips continue to move soundlessly as he recalls images from the last two unbelievably and undeniably horrific days. "No. No, there is."

"There's what?"

"Something to connect here."

"Sam, can we just – "

"Shut up a sec." Sam thinks back, lets the seemingly insignificant background components come front and center, just as, _yeah okay_ , Bobby had suggested hours ago. The chuckling, gum-chomping busboy in the diner, the street performer plucking "Brown Sugar," the snack-y cop at the roadblock who hadn't done much to block their access to the woods. "Son of a _bitch."_

"Son of _what_ bitch, Sam? Can you let me in on what you're thinkin' here?"

Sam clenches his jaw. "I'm thinking this entire thing, what's going on with you, the monster back there…it's all the same thing."

"How does that make sense?"

Sam's not entirely sure he can fight through his headache to say the number of words necessary for Dean to understand what he's thinking. But Dean's at least as tough as he looks, and he gets there without Sam having to say it.

"Son of a BITCH."

* * *

"You remember how to summon 'im?"

A telltale sign that Dean is far beyond things like polite conversation and general tact, because this is one of those things they aren't supposed to talk about. Anything having to do with the Broward County Mystery Spot or Sam's lost months is so far off the table, it isn't even in the same zip code as the table.

"Yeah, I do," Sam says tightly, adjusting his grip on Dean's jacket to compensate for persistent pull of gravity on his brother's dragging, dead-weight limbs. "But I don't think we're gonna need to go that far." His eyes catch the faint wash amber wash of the main road's lone streetlight over the crest of the hill. "Almost there."

"Good," Dean rasps. "Not sure I've got enough juice left, anyway."

Sam's head is aching and pounding and adrenaline is all that's keeping his feet moving forward at this point, but if Dean says one more thing like that, he has no doubt he will club his brother into unconsciousness and full-on DRAG his mercifully silent ass the rest of the way to the car.

They break out of the woods onto blessed pavement, and Sam rotates stiffly, pointing them in the direction of where they left the Impala at the roadblock. Except the roadblock isn't there. _Son on a bitch_ , Sam thinks again, picking up the pace, suspicions all but cemented by the temporary gate's disappearance.

"Hey, agents."

Sam spins at the call, jaw clenching as he sees the eager young officer striding down the otherwise dark, empty road. There isn't even a cop car parked nearby anymore, to grant the scene some authenticity.

"You guys just about done down there? You really shouldn't be out much…whoa, what happened to him?"

Dean's knees disappear and Sam lets him fall as gently as possible against a wide tree framing the berm next to the Impala's front fender, drops the weapons bag next to his splayed legs, and doesn't break stride as he meets the officer in middle of the street. The pain in his head and leg are distant memories as he grabs the guy's shirtfront with both hands and spins him forcefully, walks him backwards before hauling him up against the hood of the car. To his credit, Dean doesn't protest his baby coming into play.

The officer, however, raises his hands, eyes widening. "Hey, whoa, buddy. Take it easy – "

Sam is not to be trifled with at the moment. He focuses on a spasm of pain racking his swollen knee, channels it into another vigorous slam of the man's back against cool metal, this time drawing a soft whimper from where Dean waits just beyond the car. "FIX my brother, you SON of a bitch."

The sadistic asshole drops the façade even quicker than Sam had anticipated, young, frightened, pockmarked face shimmering into the familiar, maddening, boyishly lopsided grin of the Trickster. "Say 'please.'"

* * *

 _To be concluded..._


	4. Part IV

_Part IV_

Folded over the gleaming hood of the big Chevy, the Trickster jerks his head sharply to the left. _Crack._ Sharply to the right. _Crack._ Then he laughs, a cackle loud enough to bounce around the otherwise empty road that surrounds them. "I gotta give you guys some credit. That did NOT take as long as I thought it would."

"It took long enough." Sam removes a hand from its white-knuckled grip on the fake officer's getup and throws a shaky finger to where Dean is slumped on his left. "Fix him. Now."

"Fine, okay? _Fine_." A dramatic show of waving hands, then they're dropped back heavily with exasperation. "Whoosh. Fixed. Happy?"

Sam doesn't release his hold on the menace as he steps back just far enough to put Dean completely in his eye line. He notes the continued presence of the stomach-wrenching shine of blood still covering Dean's arm as he digs awkwardly across his body with his left hand, dragging the half-empty bottle from the duffel bag.

Sam watches with narrowed eyes as his brother tests the Trickster's words with a tentative sip of warm water.

Time stands still for a long moment, and then Dean nods a brief confirmation. He ends up draining what's left of the water, letting his head fall back against rough bark with a tired, pained, but somewhat contented sigh. Visible in the moonlight, his throat works with the want of more refreshment as he tosses the bottle aside into the dirt and hauls his bloody, uncooperative right arm across his lap.

"So? Happy now?"

Sam allows himself one brief exhale of relief, then whirls back around. "Not even close." He grips the shirt tightly with one hand, reaching into his jacket to withdraw a squat, hastily whittled stake with the other. He hefts the light stick of wood, rests the point against the Trickster's jugular. It feels much too small to accomplish anywhere _near_ the amount of damage his body is begging him to inflict.

His target of rage shrinks back, molding himself once more against the shape of the car. "Okay, let's take it easy with that thing, huh?" He throws his eyes to side, bringing Dean into the conversation. "How did you guys figure it out, anyway? What gave me away?"

"You've been following us for days," Sam spits. "We didn't see it before, but the cop was the last straw. You were almost too eager to point us in the direction of that thing."

The Trickster raises his eyebrows, considering.

"The douchebag with the guitar," Dean says from his spot on the ground, a hitch in his breath. He might not be cursed any longer, but he's still not in great shape, and is in need of a hell of a lot more than water at this point.

"What, you boys don't like 'Brown Sugar'? Come on, it's a classic!"

"The busboy in the diner," Sam continues, ignoring him.

The Trickster rolls his eyes. "The truck driver outside your motel room, blah blah blah."

Sam frowns. "Wait. What?"

"Oh, gross."

Sam pivots to face Dean. "What."

"The lot lizards, man," Dean breathes, making a face, channeling his pain into an unconvincing mask of disgust. When he next speaks, every word is an individual struggle. "Gotta say, buddy, they were not up to par with the last pair of ladies I saw you with."

"Oh." Sam turns back to the Trickster, lip curling. "Gross."

He squirms in Sam's grasp. "Hey, come on. I made them. They're not _gross_."

Sam tightens his grip on both shirtfront and stake and slams him back roughly against the Impala.

"Why are you always spoiling my fun, Sam?"

Sam flexes his fingers around the slim wooden stake. "Why does your _fun_ always seem to involve killing my brother?"

"Oh, _come on_ ," the Trickster groans, placing a firm hand on the edge of the stake and pulling it away from its position at the base of his throat. He draws himself somewhat upright, resting on his elbows against the hood of the car. "I wasn't really gonna _kill_ him."

"Came pretty damn close," Sam grits, eyes flitting to where Dean is slumped in his peripheral, fighting to stay conscious. Sam kind of wishes he'd give up the fight; it's not like he's going to be much back up for Sam when he can't even stand.

"Close isn't the same as dead, is it?"

"It's close enough." An angry fire rips through Sam's belly as another spasm rocks his wrenched leg. "And we both know you've killed him before."

The Trickster straightens fully from the car, bringing up both pointers to jab Sam in the sternum, pushing him away to hop on his good knee. "THAT needed to happen, for you to learn your lesson." He claps Sam on the upper arm. "Remember?"

Sam's no longer sure whether he's shaking more from pain or anger. He's no longer sure that's a distinction to be made. "And what's my lesson here, huh?" he forces through gritted teeth.

His heads cocks almost fondly as he smiles. "If I have to tell you, then you haven't really LEARNED anything, have you? For now, you just have to trust me when I say that I had the best of intentions, and that I wasn't gonna kill your big, dumb ox-like brother."

"Why should I believe you?" Sam's jaw is clenched so tightly, it's a miracle his words are understood at all.

"You shouldn't," the Trickster says brightly, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially. "But when has that ever stopped you, huh?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, now, Sam." He bumps Sam with his elbow, draws even closer, like they're sharing a secret. "That little fallen angel on your shoulder?"

It takes a moment.

When it hits, Sam is rocked back as though physically struck. He drops his arm, stake dangling at his side. "Ruby?" he asks incredulously, voice climbing in pitch to an unnatural register. "This was about _Ruby?"_

He's met with a lethal, level stare. "Exactly how much good do you think that damn dirty demon is doing, Sam?" He shakes his head, _tsking_ quietly, almost like he's afraid Dean will hear. "And what you're doing with her…"

"It's a hell of a lot more good than you're doing." Sam's fingers flex once more around the wood, bringing the stake back up, moments away from closing out the talking portion of the evening's festivities. "The call we heard on the scanner, that _thing,_ those dead kids…"

The Trickster groans, rolling his head along his shoulders. "Oh, would you _relax?_ Nobody really died. I made it all up! I just couldn't have you shacked up playing doctor with that sulky, whiskey-soaked coot. Had to get you back out here in the real world." He cocks his head. "Relatively speaking, of course. And it was only, like, the EASIEST thing in the world to do. Dean Winchester might just be the most predictable creature on the planet."

Sam absorbs the words like a hit. "What's your problem with Dean, huh? If this is all about me, then why do you keep screwing with my brother?"

"Excellent question, Sammy," Dean croaks from the side of the road, drifting in and out of hearing what's transpiring above him. Leaves rustle and crunch beneath his hands and boots as he fights to move around and pull himself upright.

"Because you emotional _lumps_ seem to learn better this way." The Trickster steps to the side, causing Sam to lift his stake and take up an offensive stance. "That is to say, if you've learned anything at all. Never forget, Sammy, pride goeth before the fall."

Sam frowns, right leg quaking and threatening to buckle for good. "What the hell does – "

The spiked end of a torn branch suddenly explodes from the Trickster's chest cavity, a neat hole ripped clean through his body. He stares down at the protrusion with wide, surprised eyes.

"Did you see that coming?" Dean grits into his ear, giving the makeshift stake a crunchy twist for good measure.

The Trickster lifts his head and makes eye contact with Sam before he shimmers out of existence, and Sam would almost swear the son of a bitch winks at him.

"Predictable, my ass," Dean says as the stake falls to the asphalt with a clatter. He raises his eyes to Sam and grins.

And promptly passes out.

* * *

Sam's having a rough go at getting any sleep, mostly because Dean usually concedes the more comfortable couch to his little brother and pulls up a slab of hardwood for himself, and somewhat due to the painful stiffness of his swollen knee and the pounding in his well-rung skull. But also because Dean is making some truly horrible sounds of nightmare and pain as he kicks and stirs and fidgets on the couch over Sam's head.

Over the past few weeks, Sam's gotten used to the noises coming from the next bed as Dean struggles for sleep and _rest_ , but this cocktail of groans and whimpers is a brand new nightmare.

If the Trickster hadn't lifted the curse when he did, the night would have carried on in a completely different direction. The fifteen miles back to Bobby's had been some of the longest of Sam's life, even knowing that the man was ready and waiting with all manner of medical supplies and triage experience when they rumbled back onto his property, beaten and bloody.

Now a row of dark stitches and another sloshy bag of IV-administered refreshment later, Dean is tucked into and twisted up in the fleece blanket he'd rejected earlier in the day, fighting Hell and fever and infection and dehydration and any number of factors that Sam is too woozy and exhausted to find appropriate words for. Enough is enough, and he's not really looking to start labeling all of the various tortures his obviously weakened brother is going through on a daily basis.

It's never been clearer to Sam that he needs to take full control of the driver's seat while Dean struggles to regain his strength and footing in the world. He just needs to get a little bit of strength back, himself, once Dean is able to be moved out of Bobby's. Everything will be back to normal once he can hook up with Ruby.

Skin suddenly crawling with what he needs and wants and can't yet have, Sam rolls against the hard, unforgiving floorboards, inhales a nose full of dust and pulls himself upright with the force of his sneeze. Which is hell on his still-aching head.

He's scrubbing at his gritty eyes when he catches sight of a familiar face peering at him through the picture window over Dean's head, a pale hand giving him a cheery wave. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"Fuckin' me," Dean sleepily echoes in a whisper, wrong in so many ways, as he sweats and thrashes against the confinement of his covers.

Sam pats his brother gingerly on his good shoulder as he passes, setting his socked feet in a steady, however limp-stuttered, course for the front door.

He has enough courtesy for his brother convalescing just inside that he pulls the door quietly but completely closed before rounding on the Trickster. "Okay, what the _hell_ is going on?" Sam demands, finding himself nestled in a place so far past anger that he doesn't even register the chill of the breeze rustling his hair. "I am getting really tired of killing you. Who are you?"

He holds hands out in appeasement. "Okay, you're mad. That makes sense."

"Does it?" Sam takes a threatening step forward, but he wasn't actually expecting the son of a bitch to shrink away from him, especially when the only weapons he's toting are pure rage and an obvious inability to give chase.

"It wasn't REAL, Sam, okay? None of it. You really need to learn to RELAX."

When Sam speaks next, his voice is shaking. "Dean's got an infection and fourteen stitches in his arm that say that thing out there was real enough."

An infuriating cock of the Trickster's head. "Yeah, I can't fix that. Damage done is damage done. But he's alive, right? And besides, you never even THANKED me for uncursing him."

"You're the one that cursed him to begin with." A muscle in Sam's jaw jumps painfully. "You son of a bitch."

The Trickster levels that same lethal stare from the woods, and shakes his head with each word. "Not even close."

Sam runs both hands through his hair, gives a loud, exasperated sigh. "What was the point of all of this, huh?"

"Right to the good part, then." The Trickster paces the long, rotted porch out front of Bobby's, rubbing his hands together as though against the night's chill. He cocks his head at Sam. "Have you ever heard the saying, 'the truth is hard to swallow when you're choking on your pride'?"

Sam blinks. "Are you serious? This is another…what, that's the lesson you're trying to teach us? You CHOKED him for TWO DAYS for that?"

"Come on, Sam. You're so OBSESSED with convincing yourself that you know right from wrong, that you know what you're doing is right, you can't even see the truth that's laid out in front of you."

Sam doesn't want to ask. He wants nothing more than to kill the Trickster. Again. Over and over, as many times as it takes. He doesn't want to ask, but he can't seem to stop himself. "What truth?"

"That you're teamed up with a _demon_ , Sam. How could you need to know any more than that? You wanna know how many times THAT'S worked out well?" He holds up a hand in the shape of an 'O.' "Big fat goose egg."

"You don't know what you're talking about." Sam's eyes scour the porch railings for one loose enough to use as a stake.

The Trickster follows his eye line and shrugs. "Okay. I've done my part. If you don't want to listen…" He squares up to Sam, eyes dark and penetrating. "Then everything that happens next is going to land squarely on your shoulders, Sam. Are you ready for that?"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm not listening to this. I'm not falling for any more of your tricks."

The Trickster's head bobs. "Sure, I get that. And I'll back away quietly, go slinking evilly into the night and all that jazz. So long as you remember what we talked about here. And don't you come crying to me when this house of cards comes toppling down."

He snaps his fingers and Sam is left alone, shivering on the porch, with a bum knee and a broken brother and a thirst he can't quite quench.

* * *

 _The End_

 _And here is the list of story requirements that produced this beast:_

 _1\. Sam, Dean and Bobby_

 _2\. Dean can't eat or drink for at least 24 hours due to some supernatural affliction_

 _3\. an IV bag_

 _4\. a fluffy fleece flannel blanket_

 _5\. H/C genre_

 _6\. an original monster_

 _7\. a childhood memory_

 _8\. a guitar_

 _9\. at least 10,000 words in length_

 _10\. and a side order of fries_

 _So, I did what I could! Thanks for reading!_


End file.
